


Frozen Hearts

by eilonwy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adult Draco Malfoy, Adult Hermione Granger, Angst and Feels, Drama, F/M, HP: EWE, Holidays, London, Parenthood, Post-Hogwarts, Romance, Winter Solstice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-12
Updated: 2017-11-12
Packaged: 2019-02-01 09:19:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12701943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eilonwy/pseuds/eilonwy
Summary: On a frigid December evening, warmth and comfort can be found in unexpected places.Written for the 2017 D/Hr Advent fest.  My prompt: "frozen hearts"Thanks so much to all who nominated me!  It's a favorite fest and I love writing for it!





	Frozen Hearts

It was that time of year again. The time of saccharine platitudes forcing relentless good cheer and well wishes down everyone’s throats, of interminable holiday jingles issuing from every shop in the High Street. No doubt it was the same in Diagon Alley, though Hermione hadn’t been there in ages. Not that she planned on going anytime soon. She would keep the Solstice in her own way, thank you very much, without any interference from well-intentioned busybodies who were sure they knew how she should live her life far better than she knew herself.

Celebrate the utter shambles her life had become – that’s what she would do. Everything had pretty much gone to shit after the divorce. Never in a million years would she have guessed that Ron – easy-going Ron – would eventually fight her for custody of Rose and Hugo, insinuating some obscure suggestion of parental unfitness. It hadn’t helped that her former in-laws were such respected pillars of the community, Arthur finally achieving not inconsiderable influence at the Ministry. They’d supported their son’s efforts wholeheartedly, and she supposed that from their perspective, it had been the right decision. The Weasleys were certainly not the only ones who truly believed that at this point, she might not be the better influence on the children. Depression tends to suggest the possibility of other concurrent problems, in the eyes of those judging from the safety of their own insulated, little bubbles. Bloody hypocrites, the lot of them. What did they know about her life, for gods’ sake? A sterile marriage, a public image that had gradually become burdensome and stifling to maintain, and the corrosive knowledge that she’d singlehandedly exiled her parents to another continent without the means to properly restore their memories. They were as good as lost to her now, despite her best efforts.

Setting her mouth in a grim line, Hermione reached for the glass of wine she’d poured and downed a healthy swallow. The ruby-red elixir burned its way down her gullet, pooling warmly in her chest and stomach. To 2014, she thought morosely, bringing the glass to her lips again. Maybe the new year would turn out better than the old one, though she doubted it. 

Loneliness had become the constant in her life: companion, confidante, and bedfellow. She had no reason to believe this would change.  
  
  
  


*

  
  
  
  
21 December 2013  
Saturday evening  
  
  
An unusually severe cold snap had descended on Britain several days before, holding the nation in a tight and unrelenting grip of arctic temperatures and dangerous ice. No snow had fallen yet; it was simply too cold, though the sky was heavy with clouds. But everywhere there had been water, there was now a thick, impenetrable layer of ice. Rivers of it like ancient glaciers stretched out on streets and pavements, the product of unfortunate timing; a heavy rainstorm had flooded the roads just before the temperatures plummeted.

Cautiously picking her way along Charing Cross Road, head bent against the cold knifing its way straight through her heavy woollens, Hermione glanced up briefly to decide where to go. Home, empty and too quiet, wasn’t much of an option. The children were with their father, who had brought them to their grandparents for the weekend. She hadn’t been invited, no great surprise. There had merely been a brief note from her ex, delivered by owl. “Will bring the kids to you on the 26th” was all it had said. No Solstice wishes, nothing. It was as if they were virtual strangers now. Incredibly, Ron had been blindsided, taken totally by surprise, when she’d asked for a divorce. As if he’d had no clue – for years, really – that they’d had serious issues that had gone unresolved and so had festered. What marriage had _he_ been half of, Hermione had often wondered incredulously. She really ought not have been surprised, though. His being utterly oblivious was right there at the root of their problems. Nevertheless, his shock when she’d left him, taking the children, had devolved into a much deeper, more toxic stew of betrayal and bitterness, which in turn had tainted his family as well. They barely spoke to her now.

Without thinking, she turned blindly into the Leaky Cauldron. At least it would be warm there. She could disappear into the smoky vapours and nurse her wounds for a while before going home.

‘Oh well, who cares if I never go to the Burrow again,’ she found herself thinking darkly as she made her way to a table in a dim corner. ‘All that commotion.’ And she’d never much cared for the way her former mother-in-law had always swooped in and taken over where her kids were concerned, making Hermione feel inadequate and superfluous. At least now, she wouldn’t have to see it. Maybe being _persona non grata_ wasn’t such a bad thing after all. A bitter smile lifted her mouth briefly and a small laugh escaped her.

“What’s so funny?”

The familiar voice was right at her shoulder. Twisting her head around, she glanced upwards, but the brim of her hat obscured the view. Pulling it off, so that her hair sprang up in a thousand points of static electricity, she glared in the direction of the speaker, who immediately began to laugh.

“Ah. Exactly the way I remember you from first year, Granger. How very reassuring.”

Draco Malfoy stood there, bundled up in a long, black winter cloak, a forest-green muffler wrapped snugly about his neck. Curiously, his head was bare, hair tousled, his nose and cheeks uncharacteristically rosy with the cold. He was grinning at her.

“Really? You haven’t changed either, Malfoy. The same stupid rubbish still makes you laugh, I see. Now go away. I want to be alone.” 

“Do you? Because I don’t, particularly. And even if I did, you’ve just taken the last table in the place. Beat me to it by thirty seconds.”

“You actually clocked it?” Hermione muttered, incredulous.

Draco nodded pleasantly, pulling off his gloves and flashing his watch at her. “I did. Frankly, I don’t much fancy standing about waiting. And there is a perfectly good empty chair right here. Given it’s the holiday season, it would be most ungenerous of you to deny me that seat. We don’t have to talk,” he added, dropping into the opposite chair and beginning to undo the fastenings on his cloak. 

Brilliant. She was really stuck with him now. Her mouth twisted into a grimace. “Gosh, thanks. You’ve just made my night. Let’s stick to not talking, shall we?” 

Momentarily surprised at being taken so literally, Draco sat back and merely nodded. Hermione glanced away, studying her drink, but as the moments passed, she could feel his eyes on her. It became increasingly difficult to ignore him; in the silence, his frank gaze spoke volumes. At last, she raised her eyes to his and scowled at him.

“ _What?_ ”

“Oh, nothing. Just wondering why you’re here, that’s all.” Draco’s smile remained pleasantly innocuous and mild, but there was a certain intensity in his grey eyes that was slightly unnerving.

“I could ask you the same question,” Hermione replied pointedly.

“You could indeed. Do you really want to know?” He waited, an eyebrow quirked slightly in question.

She nodded, curious now despite herself.

“Right, then. I’m here because my darling ex-wife and her boyfriend have taken my son away on a skiing holiday. To Switzerland. My parents are at the Paris house. They invited me to join them, but I declined. Not really keen on quite that much alone time with them, being brutally honest. Mum tends to hover, if you know what I mean. So I’m on my own. Solstice, New Year’s, the lot.” He flashed a quick, mischievous grin at her. “I’m finding I rather like it.” The grin faded then, as he added, “Well, parts of it. I miss my son. Your turn.”

For a long moment, an all-too-familiar wave began building in her brain and chest: remembered tensions, anger, resentments, bitter and hurtful words, all of it surging to the forefront of her thoughts and ready to burst from her in one long, ugly rant. She took one breath, then another, fighting it down, and finally sat back with a small, ragged sigh.

“My kids are very close by, but they might as well be in Switzerland, or on the moon, for that matter. They’re at their grandparents’ house now, with their father.” She hesitated and then plunged ahead, her voice dropping to a pained whisper. "I lost custody of them a while back." Bastard, she couldn’t help thinking at the mention of Ron, because damn it, what he’d done to her in taking away her children had hurt so much. Thinking about all of it now was just what she’d hoped to avoid, coming here to the Leaky. She'd meant to distract herself and perhaps get agreeably buzzed. But here it all was anyway, dragged out into the open for Draco Malfoy – of all people! – to hear and no doubt find amusing.

Surprisingly, he wasn’t laughing. He wasn’t even smiling now. Instead, he was looking intently at her, and the expression in his eyes was a mix of interest and something else she’d never associated with him in the past – something looking suspiciously like empathy.

“Why?” he asked softly. “What happened?”

No. She couldn’t have this. There was just too much on the verge of spilling out. She couldn’t lose control that way, have her guts on the table for the world to see. Words stuck in her throat, and all she could do was shake her head, swallowing hard and blinking back treacherous tears. Damn Malfoy.

Nodding, he reached out and touched her hand briefly. “Never mind.” He paused and then offered her a small, wry smile. “Shall I tell you my sad story, then?”

She nodded, relieved, and reached for a sip of her mulled wine. Its comforting warmth and spiciness were soothing, and she could feel herself begin to relax.

“Let me amend that. My story _would_ be sad, if it weren’t so bloody pathetic. Astoria and I split up two years ago. Scorpius was five at the time. I know now that our marriage was a joke from the beginning, but at the time, I really believed I was in love with her. Looking back, I reckon it was a case of me being attracted to a pretty face and also trying to appease my parents, who saw it as a perfect union of well-suited families. I’d been a bit wild before that; finally, I decided it was time to get serious and do the grownup thing.

“So I talked myself into it. No great surprise, I found out pretty quickly what a disaster she was. We had Scorpius fairly soon after we got married, and it was all downhill from there. He’s her ticket to lifelong security and Malfoy money. She doesn’t give a crap about me. Never did, really. She made sure to get knocked up as fast as she could manage it, so there would be a claim to my family’s money that nobody could dispute. I was a means to an end. Lovely, yeah?”

He smiled grimly and took a swallow of his own wine.

“I’m fighting to get sole custody because I know what she’s like with our son. Totally unfit. Downright neglectful. She doesn’t care about him any more than she ever did about me, and the poor little chap is constantly trying to get her attention and approval. He may be on holiday with her, but believe me, if I know Astoria at all, he’s been with a string of nannies or childminders whilst they’ve been abroad. I bet he hasn’t spent more than five minutes in his mother’s company. She’s far too busy with Rolf, her latest lover. German chap. Nasty git. I hate that my son is anywhere near him.”

Hermione looked away and swallowed hard, colour rising into her cheeks. “Molly and Arthur believe _I’m_ an unfit mother,” she whispered. “But I’m not! Truly! I was depressed for a time – a long time, it’s true – but I was never neglectful. And I was getting help from a healer. But Ron used what he called my ‘mental state’ as an excuse to take Rose and Hugo from me two years ago. We’d had joint custody before that, but now they’re with him all the time, and I get to see them only on weekends.” 

A renegade tear slid down her cheek and she wiped roughly at it without thinking. 

“I’m sure Arthur pulled some serious strings to get that judgment.” The bitterness in Hermione’s voice was unmistakeable. “Getting it reversed isn’t going to be easy.”

Draco leaned forward, lacing his fingers together. “Have you started proceedings yet?” 

She shook her head, defeated. “I want to. I just… I just feel –” 

“Overwhelmed?” Draco nodded. “Yeah. It’s a lot to face. I know.” There was a momentary silence and then he looked back at Hermione, and now there seemed to be a banked fire in his gaze.

“Look. I’ve only just got started with my own case, and I admit that I’ve been dragging my feet a bit, so it hasn’t gone forward the way it should have done by this time. S’pose I’ve needed a bit of a push, and I expect you have as well. I propose that we help each other.”

At the startled question in Hermione’s eyes, he went on quickly. “What I mean is, we could encourage each other – you know, when either of us is losing heart or momentum, feeling a bit down.”

“Maybe help each other with research for our cases as well,” she said slowly, nodding. “Yes, I see.”

“Not to mention giving each other a swift kick in the bum when we’re in need of less subtle inspiration.” Draco chuckled, casting a brief, sidelong glance at Hermione, who grinned despite herself. “Got a solicitor, then?”

Hermione shook her head, idly running a fingertip along the rim of her empty glass. “You see? I’m absolutely pitiful. I haven’t even accomplished that much.”

Rising to his feet, Draco plucked up the two wine glasses. “Don’t go away, Granger,” he instructed her with mock sternness. “We haven’t finished.”

He headed off to the bar to get refills and Hermione watched him go, getting her first really good look at him from top to bottom. There was no getting around it: what she saw was undeniably attractive. He’d grown into himself quite nicely at the age of thirty-three. No longer gangly and pointy-looking, now he was simply tall and lean (nice, rugged shoulders!), his pale hair cut in rakish layers that spilled over the back of his collar in a longish, shaggy fringe. A fine dusting of stubble covered his cheeks and chin, adding to the surprisingly informal look. There was no crisply tailored suit beneath the cloak; instead, he wore a black, cable-knit jumper and a pair of comfortable-looking, faded jeans that fit so well, they were like a second skin. The look was uncharacteristically Muggle and most assuredly un-Malfoy-like. This was not the Draco Malfoy she remembered or would have expected, based on the boy she’d known at school. Clearly, he’d changed in the fifteen years since Hermione had last seen him, and not just as a result of a failed marriage and the advent of fatherhood. Suddenly, she found herself intensely curious about exactly what else those fifteen years had held for him.

Before she had a chance to speculate further, he was back at the table, setting down two full glasses of the mulled wine. Warm and fragrant, its aroma wafted up into Hermione’s face, and her eyes drifted shut as she breathed in its spicy perfume.

A brief, passing concern about the likelihood of getting fairly drunk niggled at her, uninvited. Those glasses were quite generous, and they were filled once again to the brim. It wouldn’t take long before she was feeling no pain. She was already drifting pleasantly. A modicum of caution wouldn’t go amiss.

Perhaps it wouldn’t, but Hermione decided she was fed up with her usual reserve and common sense. Where had it got her up to now? She’d lost her kids despite trying so hard to be the good, responsible girl all her life.

‘Sod it all, I’ll get pissed if I want to,’ she thought defiantly, raising the glass to her lips. There were no kids to look after tonight; Ron had seen to that. She was all on her own, only herself to answer to, and an adult of legal age. Why the hell not? Feeling deliciously reckless and free suddenly, she downed a healthy swallow and turned to Draco. In the dim firelight, his fine, patrician features partially in shadow, he was looking incredibly handsome. No, not merely handsome. Such a description was far too tepid. He was _hot._

“Dance with me, Malfoy,” she murmured, getting to her feet a bit unsteadily and holding out a hand. Inhibitions be damned.

One eyebrow rose in faint surprise, but without missing a beat, Draco took her proffered hand and rose, moving to her side and pulling her close.

“We’ll have to make up our own music, you know,” he murmured in her ear. “Unless you fancy dancing to _that_.” Laughing softly, he inclined his head in the direction of a very drunk wizard in a corner, who’d begun mangling a time-honoured ballad so badly that nobody even recognised what he was trying to sing.

Hermione giggled. The drunken warbling coming from the corner really was dreadful. “Doesn't matter. Who needs music anyway?” 

Arms wrapped about Draco’s waist and her cheek resting against the soft wool of his jumper, she sighed contentedly, swaying on the balls of her feet to music only she could hear. It felt so good, being this close to a man again, breathing in his scent and feeling his strong arms supporting her as they moved together. Malfoy smelled really good, she’d discovered: a mix of soap and something spicy – sandalwood maybe, and ambergris. The fact that it was Draco Malfoy seemed inconsequential at the moment. All she knew was, it had been far too long – years, really – since she’d been held by a man this way. And he was making her _feel_ things, sensations and impulses she’d nearly forgotten.

“You dance well,” came the whisper in her ear. She could hear a smile in his voice. “I don’t often have the pleasure of dancing with a woman who doesn’t tread on my feet.”

Hermione raised her head and looked up at Draco. “Oh, surely that can’t be true. You must have a pretty active social life now that you’re single. I would think –”

“That’s just it, you see. I don’t, not really. Being with my son is much more important to me now. I go out once in a great while, but the chase doesn’t hold much real interest for me anymore. Sad, isn’t it.” He chuckled. “I’m _old_.”

It was pretty clear that despite his words, he really didn’t regret a thing. Smiling, she rested her cheek against his chest once again. “I suppose I’m old too, then,” she murmured. “Even older than you. Much as I hate to admit it, I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve been out on a date since my divorce.”

“When was that?”

“We separated four years ago, when Rose was three and Hugo was just a year old. The divorce became final a year later. I’ve been a free agent since then. I won’t even tell you how many dates I’ve had.” Now it was her turn to laugh a bit. “It’s far too embarrassing!”

“I don’t suppose you’d care to consider tonight as one,” he teased. “Why not, though, eh? It would be good for both our egos, having another one to count.”

“Well, that makes three for me, then,” Hermione muttered, and then clapped a hand over her mouth with a giggle. “Oh, gosh, I hadn’t meant to tell! What must you think?”

Draco laughed out loud then and gave her hand a squeeze. “What I think,” he told her, “is that a lot of men have missed out and would be very envious of me right now.”

Sheer gratitude and something else as well – something she hadn't felt in ever so long – flooded through her, mixing with the two large glasses of wine and making her feel suddenly weak at the knees. Their eyes met and there was a long, electric moment that stole her breath away. Closing her eyes, her heart pounding in sudden anticipation, she waited. Would he? And then the moment passed. Feeling vaguely embarrassed and disappointed, she stepped back, stumbling slightly. In a flash, Draco’s hands were firmly at her waist, restoring her balance.

“Look, I could do with some fresh air,” he said. “I think perhaps you could, too. Shall we go? I’ll see you home.”

Hermione had to admit that fresh air sounded like exactly what she needed just then. The densely smoky interior of the Leaky, combined with the alcohol working its will on her relatively empty stomach, had rendered her limbs increasingly dysfunctional, if the way she was wobbling now was any indication. Her brain seemed to have relinquished much of its capacity for rational thought as well. She was drunk, all right. It had happened, and in the company of Draco Malfoy. 

Nodding weakly, she allowed herself to be led back to the table to collect their cloaks and mufflers. Vaguely, she was aware that he was helping her into her outerwear and then in the direction of the door. Bracing her about the waist with one hand, Draco pulled open the door with the other.

A wall of frigid air hit them in the face, and both winced. The cold hadn’t abated at all, but a glance at the sky told a different story.

“Look up,” he said quietly. “It’s amazing.”

And so it was. The clouds had been swept away by the earlier wind. Now all was still and clear, the entire world shrouded in deepest quiet and the sky a blaze of winter stars, glittering diamond shards arrayed against the velvet-black sky. The moon, like a huge, silver eye, winked at them in the darkness. The longest night of the year was a light show beautiful beyond imagining. 

“Merlin!” Hermione breathed, transfixed. “I’ve never seen so many stars!”

“Bloody brilliant,” Draco murmured, reaching for her hand and threading his fingers snugly through hers.

At his touch, Hermione started, then smiled into the darkness and relaxed her hand in his. The whole evening had been unexpected and well outside the realm of any prior experience with him, and yet somehow, it felt okay. More than okay; bizarrely and inexplicably, it felt natural and right. As if they’d been friends for years. And then there were those other feelings he’d stirred in her. Being a realist, she knew that nothing would come of it. Still, she was grateful to him for this Solstice evening, for making her feel valued and alive.

“Wool-gathering, Granger?” His teasing question shook her out of her reverie. “Galleon for your thoughts.”

“Oh, they’re not worth all that much,” she replied, with a small, rueful laugh. “I think I’ll just keep them to myself, if that’s all right.”

“Okay, though I can’t help being curious. You intrigue me, Hermione. Do you mind if I call you that?”

“No, of course not!” She glanced at him sideways for a moment. He looked completely serious. “It does sound a bit odd, though, after so many years of just surnames.”

“Well, then, I reckon it’s about time we did something about that.” 

“What exactly did you have in mind?” His thumb had begun idly caressing hers as he spoke, and she could feel her pulse starting to flutter and race once again.

“New Year’s Eve. Would you… would you consider having dinner with me? I realise it’s rather last minute. You’ve probably already got plans…” He trailed off and looked at her, waiting.

She shook her head. Rose and Hugo would be back with Ron by then. She’d had invitations to two parties, but both would be mostly couples and she hadn’t the heart for that. No, it would be a quiet evening alone with a cup of cocoa and a book. A lonely evening, being honest. The sort she’d had far too many of already.

“Technically, you know, it would be our second date – if you say yes, that is,” he continued, warming to the subject. “Do you fancy Italian food? There's a wonderful new place I've been wanting to try.”

Hermione nodded avidly. “I adore it. Where is this new place? Somewhere in Diagon Alley?”

He laughed. “Not exactly. It’s in Rome, in the Piazza del Popolo. They do fantastic fireworks there on New Year’s Eve, and we’d practically have ringside seats. So what do you say, Granger? Are you game?”

“Hermione,” she corrected him, smiling shyly. “And yes, I’d love to go. It’ll be an adventure.”

Drawing her hand to his lips, he pressed a kiss to her palm. “I suspect, Hermione Granger, that we’ve lots of adventures ahead, you and I.” Then he bent his head and found her mouth. The kiss was sweet and tender and very warm, warm enough to melt a frozen heart.

**Author's Note:**

> There really are spectacular fireworks on New Year's Eve in the Piazza del Popolo in Rome. The restaurant I had in mind for their romantic dinner is called Il Porto di Ripetto, and it's a stone's throw from the Piazza.
> 
> Huge thanks, as ever, to my amazing and utterly invaluable beta and friend, mister_otter! *hugs, Carol*
> 
> Thanks to our wonderful mods, for their hard work and also for such a great prompt. I liked it so much that I ended up using it as my story's title!


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